


The Spirit of Language

by outofcertainty



Series: Through Symbolic Means [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, M/M, it's also pretentious but I haven't written fic in three years so I'll take what I can get, this is literally Alec staring at something and thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 00:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10425540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outofcertainty/pseuds/outofcertainty
Summary: There are Alec words and there are Magnus words. These days, it’s not as easy for him to tell the difference.[In which Alec wonders about words, meanings and bonds.]





	

He doesn’t know what prompted him to do it.

He knows why the book had caught his attention. It had called to him precisely because it _wasn’t_ a book. It lay there, on the table, between two big, old, leather-bound tomes. It was a slim thing, completely black, and it looked entirely out of place in the midst of ancient magical treaties, huge, orderly collections of encyclopedias far older than him, and steamy romance novels with embarrassing covers, usually involving some sort of nudity.

It was a notebook. Alec had approached it, merely curious at first. Then he had hesitated – something so out of place, maybe there was some sort of spell on it? But then surely Magnus wouldn’t have just left it lying around for anyone to stumble upon. Carefree and blasé about most magical threats as he pretended to be, he was still the High Warlock of Brooklyn after all.  _A diary_ , Alec had thought, and then, _does Magnus have a diary?_

He hadn’t known what to do with that thought. It would have to be an absurd collection of diaries, given how old Magnus was, and he had never given any indication that he’d be inclined to write such a thing. Alec got the opposite impression, in fact – his history was a private thing. Well, as much as it could be, for Magnus. He wasn’t very eager to discuss it, at any rate, and Alec couldn’t blame him.

Still, the idea that he might be breaching his boyfriend’s privacy kept him at bay, until he noticed how new the notebook looked. There were no crinkles anywhere and the pages were still stuck together neatly, as if it had never been opened. Alec brushed one finger over the lower edge of the cover, hesitating for another moment, before flipping it open. A blank page stared up at him. The notebook was empty.

That should have been the end of it. Rather than leave it be and get back to what he was supposed to be doing – and maybe because he had nothing pressing to do, for once – Alec had sat down, picked up a pen and stared at the blank page. He stares, still, unsure of what he’s doing. Writing isn’t something he does. At least not this sort of writing. Reports, memos, business and factual instructions in neat lines, yes. Other than that…

 **HELLO** , he writes, and then immediately crosses it out. Hello? Who writes that? Who writes anything, in fact? Alec glances at the page in front of him again, frowning slightly. He has read some of the classics – the Institute is not _completely_ devoid of culture and art – and he can hardly imagine any of the famous poets writing that. Hello.

Does Magnus write? The question comes to him suddenly, unprompted. Maybe not diaries but actual writing – prose, poetry? He can imagine Magnus writing poetry. Elegant fingers curled against a fountain pen, something between classic and flashy, script flowing freely across the page the exact same way that magic seems to flow across his skin, spiraling at his fingertips, ready to be unleashed. Magnus knew Michelangelo, surely he must have met a famous writer or two at some point. So _does_ Magnus write?

He thinks back but can’t remember anything useful. A quick glance around shows him no books that hint at containing prose or poetry, although would he even be able to tell? He remembers the tomes in Camille’s library, less like ancient magic in writing and more like long dead spirits bound by letters. Ghastly things – and _ghastly_ isn’t the sort of word he’d use.

Alec blinks at the paper. No, he thinks, ghastly is a Magnus word. Like magic, like warlock, but also like cherish and delight and eloquence, like charming and inimical and scarce, like frightful and horrendous and dreadful, like _care to join me_ and _you continue to surprise me_ and _so was I_. Those are not words Alec would use. Except… that conversation with Max, two weeks ago – delight – and the one with Izzy, where she had teased him about Magnus – charming – and the mission brief with Jace – dreadful – where his parabatai had glanced at him for a split-second too long.

His frown deepens slightly at the thought of Jace. The parabatai bond is sacred, but it is also rather obvious. It is impossible to deny and impossible to ignore, it changes you, because it must, immediately after being formed. But this… this slow dripping of words, like every time Magnus touches him, every time his slender fingers wrap around Alec’s shoulder, one more word passes through them, like magic. It’s so much more subtle than his bond with Jace… but no less powerful for it.

Izzy would say he’s overthinking it. She’d probably be right. Who cares that Alec has, on occasion, used Magnus words? It’s natural. It’s slow. His speech didn’t change overnight – but it _had_ changed. He can’t help but wonder about it. How far, really, would the changes go? He thinks for a moment, trying to recall more words that would make him think of Magnus, and the most obvious one springs to mind immediately. Alec grips the pen a little tighter and writes, slowly, carefully.

**ALEXANDER**

He stares at the word. His letters are too wide, too blocky, too tall. Neat, sharp strikes of the pen, quick enough to leave gaps between lines. Capital letters – all business and speed. All fact. It’s perfectly legible, the sort of penmanship you’d like to see when giving or receiving orders, but it has none of the elegance he’s come to associate with his full name, none of the rhythm, none of the rolled tongue or the jingle of jewelry or-

It looks wrong. Alec furrows a brow and tries again.

**Alexander**

He stares at the word, right below the other one. It still looks wrong. It occurs to him, suddenly, that it looks like it has a purpose. It doesn’t look like something you’d write just because you want to, but rather because you have an important message to convey. Not writing for the sake of writing. Not living for the sake of living. He repositions the pen and starts again, writing one word after the other, neatly.

**Purpose**

**Law**

**Faith**

**Duty**

**Tradition**

He stops. Stares at the last word. Mouths it to himself, as if scared of saying it out loud – which is complete nonsense, he’d defied tradition at his own wedding and hasn’t stopped defying it since. The word looks fine, it lends itself to the blocky letters with sharp lines well. Alec stares at it, moves the pen, hesitates. And then slowly, painstakingly, writes it again.

**Tradition**

The vowels are rounder, the lines less sharp, flowing into each other even as a slight tremble shows here and there. Imperfect, needlessly time consuming, but Alec can only focus on how different it looks from the exact same word above. A little more care, a little more thought, a little less rush. It’s still quite clearly his handwriting, but softer, and the end result-

Is this all it takes to change it, he wonders, and an unexpected chuckle bubbles out of him. The thought is ridiculous, of course it is, changing tradition would never be as easy as changing the mere word, much less the way he writes it. But the thought does not leave him as his laughter dies down and Alec is left frowning at the words again. Hadn’t he told his mother that? Traditions change? Isn’t Max proof of how quickly they can change, with enough care and thought – just like the letters?

He remembers Magnus talking to him a few weeks ago, in the early hours of the morning. About speech, about words. Magnus had talked animatedly, despite being half asleep, hair falling into cat-like eyes, fingertips drawing lazy circles on Alec’s shoulder. About philosophers and thinkers from centuries and places Alec can’t quite recall, memories too hazy with sleep. _We are symbolic creatures, Alexander_ , he had said. _We give meaning to things, nothing has a meaning in itself_. He remembers hearing about how, before anything else, there is a feeling or a thought and after that, there is a word.

Maybe it’s a good thing he’s been using Magnus words, then. When he thinks of change, he thinks of actions, he thinks of acting, of doing something. He doesn’t think of words, despite learning how vital they are very recently. _I love you_ had been the hardest thing he had ever said, and the most important. The feeling had been there, hidden until given shape by a thought, that too hidden until spoken out loud, until he managed to get the words out.

Alec looks back at the neatly written list. Alright, then. These are his words. And if they’re his, he can change them. If they’re symbols, if they mean whatever he wants them to mean, then he can change them.  And if some of the words end up being Magnus words, then that’s fine, too. If they’re in this together, if they’re willing to share everything, then isn’t sharing their words just part of it?

He nods to himself, satisfied, and closes the notebook. A second later, he opens it again and stares at the second word he wrote. With a grin, Alec closes the notebook for a final time and stands up from the desk. There is no telling how much they’ll keep influencing each other. He will probably use more Magnus words and Magnus himself will probably use more Alec words.

 _But Alexander_ , he thinks, capping the pen and placing it neatly next to the notebook, _that one Magnus can keep_.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully that wasn't too bad. I haven't written any fanfic in literally years, so I'm a bit rusty. This thing was prompted by several classes I had last semester talking about the nature of language (and the madness inherent to the task of translation due to that nature, but I digress).
> 
> I've watched all the Malec scenes but my knowledge of the rest of the show is spotty at best and my knowledge of the books is non-existent. I'm watching the show from the beginning to try and get a grip on everyone/everything while working on a longer story that may or may not involve cruises and spies. In space. 
> 
> Until I've caught up, though, I'll probably only post drabbles like this one. Hope you liked it anyway!


End file.
